Steve Wilson's Blog - Posts Tagged "deleted-scene"

Northern Somalia’s Minister of Defense was somewhat confused. Standing in the U.S. embassy, Desmond Okot arched his back and pulled his frame up to its full height. He was a tall man with a regal bearing—the blood of kings and tribal chieftains coursed through his veins—and was quite an imposing figure. Across the room, the American ambassador looked up from his desk and watched as the Somalian’s expression changed and a broad smile spread across his face.

“You must be joking,” Okot grinned, but the ambassador could tell he wasn’t really amused. “Do you have any idea what you are asking?”

William Tate-Smith raised a casual eyebrow and pretended to be surprised. “I assure you, Mr. Okot, indeed I do,” he replied calmly. Tate-Smith was about to cross the line between political negotiation and manipulative diplomacy, and few men were better suited for the task. “All we require is the cooperation of your government.”

The game was on.

Still smiling, Okot shook his head. “Cooperation?” He repeated. “Do you think we would allow your aircraft—your troops, your weapons—to invade our airspace?”

Tate-Smith frowned. “This is an extraction, Mr. Okot. A rescue mission—not an invasion. And we certainly mean no harm to your government or the people of Northern Somalia. We just want to save our people from those . . . insurgents . . . down south.”

From behind, a Marine captain opened the door and slipped quietly into the room. Okot was slightly distracted by the officer’s presence but his resolve was firm.

“I have great sympathy for your personnel, Mr. Ambassador. But my answer remains the same. You will have to find an alternate route to Meersala.”

The room grew very quiet. Tate-Smith pursed his lips. This was not the answer he’d hoped for. There seemed to be no clear rationale behind Northern Somalia’s obstinence at times like these. Even though the United States maintained a diplomatic presence, relations between the two countries remained fragile. More often than not, Tate-Smith was struck by how difficult this post was. It reminded him of the relationship between the U.S. and Pakistan—a friend one day, and an enemy the next. He felt as if he was dealing with the same mentality here.

But there was also a history of violence in Somalia that had left scars on America’s psyche—the infamous atrocities committed against U.S. troops in the ‘90s, and the continuing problem of piracy on the high seas. For a diplomat, Tate-Smith was something of a hawk. These people understood only one thing—brute force. His tenure here had taught the ambassador that the Somalians regarded anything else as weakness. This was especially true for Southern Somalia. Tate-Smith suppressed a smile; here in the north, the ruling party considered itself very accommodating in its dealings with the west—yet with friends like these—

The game wasn’t over yet. It was just time to change tactics.

“Mr. Okot, perhaps I didn’t make myself perfectly clear,” he began slowly, biting off the end of each word. “Our troops intend to cross your borders whether you allow it or not. Of course, without your cooperation they’ll be running a terrible risk.” The ambassador paused for effect and turned in his chair to face the window. A Navy man, Tate-Smith always went to great lengths as an advocate for the armed forces. “Your military might try to impede their progress; perhaps attempt to shoot them down—even before they reach their objective. I needn’t point out that such an act would only sour relations between us.”

There was a courtyard on the other side of the glass. The ambassador wondered what the temperature was outside. Probably hot, he reasoned, even though the sun had been down for several hours. It was always hot in Somalia. “And that’s exactly why I’ve asked you here tonight, Mr. Defense Minister. A simple word from you to your military could avert such an unfortunate incident. Now—” Tate-Smith said hopefully, “—do we have your support or not?”

He knew that he didn’t. Issuing an ultimatum only strengthened Okot’s resolve. The Somalian’s eyes narrowed. “You underestimate me, Mr. Ambassador.” His voice held a decidedly nasty edge. “I am not some third world bureaucrat you can bully, and my country will not be used as a doormat by the United States or any other nation. Is that understood?”

Okot expected a more belligerent response, but Tate-Smith surprised him. With a deep frown knitting his brow, the ambassador merely heaved a sigh and nodded his head. When he finally spoke his voice carried a subdued tone.

“Is that your final word on the matter, Mr. Okot?”

The Somalian nodded. “It is, Mr. Ambassador.”

Tate-Smith rose slowly to his feet and smiled wanly. He seemed almost detached. “Then I suppose our business here is concluded.” He extended his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

Okot eyed him with suspicion. This was too easy.

“I am pleased you see things from my perspective, Mr. Ambassador.” Puffed with pride, Okot now felt superior to the American.

“Of course,” Tate-Smith gripped his hand firmly. Okot was surprised by the strength in the westerner’s handshake. He had no idea. “I believe your car is waiting for you out front. Captain, would you kindly show Mr. Okot to the door?”

The Marine officer wore a slightly pained expression. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Ambassador.”

Tate-Smith gave a startled look. “Is there some problem, Captain?”

“The embassy has been placed on alert status, sir.” The captain looked grim. “During such an alert we operate under very strict guidelines. No one comes in, and no one goes out.” He stepped forward and handed the ambassador a yellow message slip. “This just came in.”

Okot stiffened, his mind racing to understand what was going on. He watched intently as Tate-Smith unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the message.

“Oh, dear,” he murmured softly. “This is serious.” A look of great concern seemed to darken his face. “I’m afraid the Captain is quite right, Mr. Defense Minister. The rescue mission we’ve discussed has apparently been approved by the Joint Chiefs. Our troops are airborne as we speak.” He looked up and met Okot’s stare. “For your own safety—and as a concession to operational security—I must insist that you remain here with us. Temporarily, of course.”

Okot suspected as much. “I am to be your prisoner, then?” he asked angrily.

“Prisoner?” The ambassador shook his head. “Poor choice of words, Mr. Okot. I regret that such an idea would even cross your mind.” His face brightened a little. “I’m sure that by this time tomorrow, you can return—”

“That is unacceptable.” Okot growled. “I demand that you release me this instant.” For the first time, Okot noticed that the captain carried a sidearm; and as if on cue, two more Marines entered the room—enlisted men, judging from the black insignia they wore on their collars.

Tate-Smith held up his hands and smiled broadly. “Mr. Defense Minister, I understand what you must be feeling,” he said slowly. “At a time like this, your place is at your post. American troops have entered your airspace. Surely your government will want some answers. Undoubtedly, your President will be placing a call to your office, demanding an explanation; but here you stand, unable to give it.” He let that sink in.

The Somalian seethed. “Do you know what you have done?”

Tate-Smith nodded. “I think I do, Mr. Okot. Your absence—at this late hour—will raise questions in the mind of your President. Some might even believe that you came here seeking . . . well, some advantage—in the midst of this incursion? It could damage you politically—or even worse.” Tate-Smith didn’t have to elaborate on that point. Two Northern Somalian cabinet members had been executed a few months earlier for lesser crimes—and without any evidence to convict them.

The ambassador sat casually on the corner of his desk. He knew he was laying it on a little thick. “However, if you were to place a phone call to the commander of your armed forces—ordering your military to stand down—I’m sure that would go a long way toward restoring stability. I would be assured of your safety, and you would be free to go.”

Okot’s eyes narrowed. This was blackmail; but he had little choice. This—American—had outsmarted him. And he was right—leaving his office to come here, Okot’s motives might be misinterpreted. The Northern Somalian government was a republic in title, that much was true—but in reality, it wasn’t too far removed from a despotic theocracy. There was too much at stake to gauge just how forgiving the current President might be.

Okot sat back in his chair and tried to convey a look of indifference.

“All right, Mr. Ambassador,” Okot breathed. “I will make such a call.” He stood to his feet and stepped toward the phone on the ambassador’s desk.

The Marine also moved forward, cutting off Okot in mid-stride. The tall Somalian became aware of the presence of the two enlisted men beside him.

The ambassador turned and picked up the handset. “Allow me, Mr. Okot,” Tate-Smith said without expression. He punched in the number and waited for someone to pick up on the other end. “I’m concerned that you reach the proper authorities—we wouldn’t want you to dial the wrong number now, would we?”